


Eight Hours

by pocky_slash



Series: grace coming out of the void [6]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Arguing, Established Relationship, M/M, Plans For The Future, Precognition, Stolen Moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 04:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19760593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: (Spoilers for Episode 29 and Episode 30)The mountain is destroyed, the team is scattered, a new abomination is days away, and Indrid manages to steal a few moments to see Barclay before everything comes to a head.





	Eight Hours

**Author's Note:**

> So, odds are **very good** that after episode 31, this whole little timeline/verse I have made for these stories will be shot to shit by Griffin. (On one hand, I'm hoping Indrid and Barclay interact and it makes other people jump on this ship. On the other hand, I am 99.9% sure that Griffin isn't going to decide that they've been in a romantic relationship on and off for the past fifty years, so there goes all that carefully crafted backstory.)
> 
> I wanted to get at least one more of these out before then. I might keep writing in this verse even after that (I've met me before, canon is nothing more than a suggestion), but just in case, I wanted to give these guys some hopes for the future.
> 
> This story will make the most sense if you've read any of my previous ones, but, eh, it probably works even if you haven't.
> 
> (Thanks to **heyjupiter** for doing a quick beta to try and catch my very strange word substitutions and typos!)

The Cryptonomica is located on the edge of town, which is convenient for Indrid's purposes on this night. There are two cars out front and no outside lights on, though he can see the glow of inside lights from around the edge of the window shades. He pulls the Winnebago around to the back. It's not entirely hidden from the road here, but it's not as glaringly obvious to anyone who isn't looking. He doesn't foresee there being any incidents at the moment, but the past few weeks have proven that even he can't predict everything that's going to happen.

He approaches the side door and knocks. A young man he doesn't recognize peers through the window in the door. Kirby, he's called. He had hundreds of plans for the Cryptonomica, but the lock-down has the possibility of each of them fizzling out one by one.

Kirby cracks the door open just a bit.

"Sorry, we're--," he starts to say, and Indrid says, "--closed," along with him.

"I know," Indrid continues. 

"And we're not going to be--"

"--opening again anytime soon," Indrid says along with him once again. Kirby frowns at him.

"I don't know what you're--"

"--trying to pull, but it's unwelcome here, yes, yes," Indrid says. "I'm not trying to pull anything, just get inside. You're going to let me in momentarily."

Kirby's frown only deepens. "Like hell I'm going to--"

"Jake's about to come and make a good case for it, so please step back and let me through," Indrid says.

"Wait one goddamn second--"

"Indrid?"

Jake steps behind Kirby and pulls the door fully open. Indrid steps neatly around Kirby and through the door.

The Cryptonomica looks largely unchanged since his last visit, save for the gaggle of young people in Hornets jackets gathered near the door.

"What the hell?!" Kirby says, his voice going high-pitched and nervy.

"This is Indrid," Jake explains.

"Mothman," Keith whispers, terrified.

"Yeah, that too," Jake says.

Kirby looks back and forth between all three of them and then raises his hands and backs up and away. Meanwhile, Hollis, the remaining stranger in the room, regards Indrid more closely. They look him up and down impassively, Keith trembling beside them.

"Huh," they say.

"Barclay!" Jake calls, turning towards the back room. 

Indrid takes a few steps forward, which makes Keith take a few steps back.

"You just missed the whole gang--there was a lot going on earlier and we're getting ready to close up for the night," Jake says. "I was just waiting on Barclay to drive us back to where we're staying and--BARCLAY!" he calls again.

"Jake, what the hell, I told you, give me five min--"

Barclay ducks out of the back room. The irritation on his face melts into shock and then, all at once, he looks like he might cry.

"Hi," Indrid says quietly.

" _Fuck_ ," Barclay says, and then he's across the room in three strides, lifting Indrid up in a nearly suffocating embrace. "Shit, shit, _shit_. Indrid."

"I'm here," Indrid says into the crook of Barclay's neck. His fingers are digging into Barclay's shoulders, almost without input from his brain. He doesn't want to let go.

"How did you--it doesn't matter. Fuck, it doesn't matter."

"It doesn't," Indrid agrees. He tries, clumsily, to wrap himself more tightly around Barclay, but the strength of the embrace took him by surprise and he doesn't quite have the leverage to hitch his leg over Barclay's hip. Instead, both his legs dangle uselessly until Barclay lowers him back to the ground, still hugging him tightly. When Barclay does pull away, it's only to hold Indrid's face in his hands and press their foreheads together.

"I can't believe you're really here," he murmurs, his eyes squeezed shut.

"I am," Indrid confirms. He wraps his hands around Barclay's wrists. "I can't stay for long tonight, but I'm here."

Barclay kisses him, then, and it's so desperate and sad that, for just a moment, Indrid is incandescently angry. When he last left Barclay, he saw a million versions of their reunion kiss. When he left, the scales were leaning towards one that was surprised and excited and a definite prelude to something more. All of those joyful kisses are gone, replaced with this hopeless fear that's making Barclay tremble beneath his hands. Not for the first time, he can't believe the cruelness of fate that would give him the gift of precognition, show him the beautiful possibilities of the future, and then yank them unceremoniously away.

"Dearest," Indrid says when they break apart, soft enough that only Barclay can hear it. He wipes at the corners of Barclay's eyes with his thumbs, catching the tears threatening there. Something heavy that's been pulling down on Indrid's heart for the past few weeks finally loosens as they stand together, occupying the same space, breathing the same air. Barclay is still alive and safe and Indrid is finally with him.

"Um, so, should I find another ride home?" Jake asks. 

Barclay rolls his eyes and then closes them with a sigh. Indrid bites back a laugh.

"Yes," he says before Barclay can manage. He doesn't bother turning around. "You should find another ride home. And please tell Mrs. Pearson that Barclay will be in very late tonight."

"That's presumptuous of you," Barclay murmurs, but he's grinning while he says it. He tucks a strand of hair behind Indrid's ear, then gently starts to lift his glasses off.

"No!" Keith shouts, dashing forward and then freezing in front of them, eyes wide, color drained from his face, when he sees that Barclay is already holding Indrid's glasses above his head. He stares at them both, gaping and horrified.

"Is there a problem?" Indrid asks airily. Barclay smacks his arm then flicks his wrist where his alternate disguise bracelet is fastened.

"Don't be a dick," he says.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, my dear."

Barclay rolls his eyes again. He's starting to look a little more like himself, the frantic edge wearing away from him the further that Indrid pulls him into this harmless banter. He folds up Indrid's glasses and slips them into the pocket of his own flannel shirt. He then lays a hand at the small of Indrid's back and urges him around to face the others.

"Guys, this is Indrid," he says. "My boyfriend."

"We gathered," Hollis says. Indrid can't help but like them, just a little, if only for the way Barclay gets flustered at the comment.

"We've met," Keith says. There's still a waver in his voice. "He's...the Mothman."

"Correct," Indrid says, "though I do prefer 'Indrid.' And I could grow to tolerate 'Barclay's Boyfriend' as a moniker."

"Do I want to know what you did to this kid to scare the shit out of him like this?" Barclay asks, not unfondly.

" _I_ was just going about my business in the privacy of my Winnebago," Indrid insists, but there's no way following this argument ends in a timely fashion, so he cuts himself off without further complaint. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

He knows there is, of course.

"'Talk,'" Jake whispers loudly, with air quotes.

"Is this business?" Barclay asks.

"Not yet," Indrid says. "It's for you. But we'll talk about that."

Barclay pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's never good. Um, Hollis and Keith, or Kirby, could one of you give Jake a ride home? Indrid can drop me off later."

"Sure," Hollis says. "As long as you're sure this isn't something we should hear." They're still looking at Indrid consideringly.

"We're going to talk about our feelings and then have sex on the sofa in the back," Indrid says. "Not necessarily in that order. Anything pertinent will be discussed amongst you all tomorrow when you meet at the water park."

Hollis seems to take that at face value, though Keith is still mutely horrified. "Then I look forward to hearing it then. Come on, Jake. Keith."

"See you later, Indrid," Jake says. "I hope you stick around."

Keith doesn't say anything, but he doesn't turn his back on Indrid until he's most of the way out the door.

Kirby watches them go and sighs.

"Guess I might as well close up and head home then, huh?"

"It's for the best, probably," Barclay says. "I can lock up. And can you--"

"I can make my own way home, thank you very much."

The new voice doesn't take Indrid by surprise, though Barclay startles.

"Nice to meet you, Arlo," Indrid says, turning to Thacker, who's leaning in the doorway to the back room.

"Don't remember giving you permission to call me Arlo," Thacker says. "Or introducing myself, for that matter."

"I'm just...gonna go...." Kirby says, and slides past Thacker and into the back, giving them all as wide a berth as possible.

"Thacker," Barclay says. His hand returns to the small of Indrid's back. "Sorry, I know we were going to talk, this is just--"

Thacker waves a hand at Barclay brusquely. "I get it. Needs must."

Barclay flushes. "That's not what I--"

"Indrid, you said your name is?" Thacker continues.

"I didn't," Indrid replies. "Barclay did, however." He turns to Barclay. "You're not going to like this next part, my dear."

"Why are you like this?" Barclay asks.

"Wasn't Indrid the name of that guy you were seein' before you ended up in Kepler?" Thacker says, ignoring them. "Guy you hated? Guy who ruined your life?"

"Uh," Barclay says.

"Guy who treated you like crap? Guy you were happy to leave behind? Guy you--"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, we get it," Barclay says. "Yes, Indrid was the guy I dated before Kepler, yes, I said all that shit about him. As it turns out, I maybe wasn't as blameless in that relationship as I made myself out to be, we've reconciled, it's fine now."

Thacker eyes Barclay and then Indrid. Barclay is still beet red and it's actually rather adorable.

"You treatin' 'im good?" he asks Indrid.

"I do my best at every chance I've given," Indrid promises.

"Not enough chances," Barclay says quietly.

"No, not nearly enough," Indrid agrees. They share a sad, gentle look before Thacker continues.

"What's Madeline got to say about all this?" he asks.

"She's perfectly fine with it," Indrid says.

"Well," Barclay says, "that's maybe a little bit of an exaggeration." 

"She tolerates it," Indrid amends.

"That's...closer," Barclay says.

"Uh huh," Thacker says. 

"Look, I promise I'll let you interrogate me about this tomorrow if you'll please leave us alone right now," Barclay says. "You can ask all sorts of embarrassing personal questions to make me squirm and give me all sorts of judgey looks, but I have been slowly losing my fucking mind for almost two months and I know that's nothing next to what you've been though, but I really, really just want to see my boyfriend right now."

Thacker nods genially, as if this was what he was planning all along, and disappears into the back room. He reappears a moment later with a bag slung over his shoulder.

"See you in the morning then, Barclay." He nods at Indrid. "Boyfriend."

He ambles out of the Cryptonomica, the bell over the door ringing in his wake.

Then Indrid and Barclay are alone.

Barclay sags a little, his shoulders dipping, and creases appear in his forehead as he stops pretending to be in control. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, before leaning back against the counter with a tired groan.

"So. This visit is for me?"

"This is for you," Indrid confirms.

"That implies that there might be a trip that's not for me in the future?"

"It's still not clear," Indrid admits. "I may be back in a few days. About a thirty percent chance. Thirty-five. It keeps fluctuating. Everything keeps fluctuating. But I had this window now and I wanted to make sure I took advantage of it while I could. If I don't end up coming back to town in a few days, it might be weeks before I can see you again, and...things between now and then might get messy."

Messy in a thousand different ways. Messy in ways that might mean he never gets to see Barclay again. Messy in ways where they don't both make it out alive. 

"I know you hate it when I ask this," Barclay says, "but...how long?"

"The agents at the roadblock change shifts at 6am, and I need to be gone before that," Indrid says.

"Eight hours," Barclay says softly.

"Let's not waste it," Indrid replies. He holds out his hand and Barclay takes it and squeezes it tightly, then tugs him towards the back room.

* * *

Time is strange for Indrid. He lives a hundred million futures at once, and while twenty-five years ago he was used to having his feet firmly in the present, he's fallen out of the habit in the intervening time. He has to remind himself, sometimes, that the world is more than a theoretical potential outcome he sees playing behind his eyes. He's not used to being tethered to the here and now, and that frustration is compounded by the fact that he's been living the last six months in stolen moments. He'd be happy to keep his head firmly in one place if it was a place where Barclay was. Instead, he's dragged from meeting to meeting, phone call to phone call, with all this interminable time passing in between. Interminable and dangerous. Interminable and catastrophic.

He tries, then, to appreciate the time he does have with Barclay. He tries to push everything else out and focus only on this: Barclay's hands on his skin, Barclay's hair beneath his fingertips. The breathless joy of removing layers one by one. The quiet intensity of bringing their bodies together after so long apart.

He tries to memorize what all of it feels like in the moment so he can use it as a crutch to get through however many moments will stretch between when he leaves tonight and when he's next able to return.

"I love you," Barclay says once they're trying to rearrange their bodies to fit on the small couch in Ned's former office. It's a tight squeeze, but Indrid appreciates the full body contact--it's April already, but he's still freezing and the afghan on the back of the couch is nearly useless at keeping out the chill. "Fuck, I wish we'd figured this out sooner. I wish...I don't know. That I'd reached out. That you'd've come looking for me. I wish we had more time."

"We still have time," Indrid says.

"Do we?" Barclay asks immediately, and Indrid realizes too late that he can't actually promise that.

"I don't know," he admits.

"What do you know?" Barclay sits up a little, staring down at Indrid, a frenetic energy suddenly radiating off of him, returning far too quickly after being so intimate. "I know you hate when I ask things like that. I know I'm not supposed to ask things like that."

"Barclay...." Indrid starts to say.

"It's been over fifty years, Indrid, and I've never fucking asked before. I've never asked. There are days I've wanted to know so fucking badly and I never asked because I knew you didn't fuck around with the future like that, not anymore, not since the bridge. But goddammit, it feels like we're on the verge of the whole world ending and I have to know. I have to _know_. What's happening, what's going to happen, am I going to--" He stops abruptly and swallows. "Are you? Is anyone else?"

Indrid sits up too, rubbing his temples, afterglow thoroughly extinguished. Barclay pulls his knees up against his chest, his gaze steady and determined. The couch is too small for them to share it without touching, but the movement still makes his point well enough. Indrid pulls back and wraps the afghan around himself warily as he watches the outcomes of this conversation play out. Just like every other aspect of the future, it's splintering off into too many paths to predict. Everything is like that these days, every single glance at everything from what kind of coffee he orders to what radio station he puts on seems to reverberate outwards into innumerable futures, so many more than usually result from these mundane activities and conversations.

He's lucky he doesn't rely on his precognition the way he did when he was young--he'd be thoroughly mad by now, if that was the case.

"My dearest," he says quietly, but Barclay still stares at him, unmoved. "It's not--"

"--that simple," Barclay snaps, "I know."

There's a joke in there in the vein of 'who's the one with precognition now,' but there are exactly zero futures where it goes over well.

* * *

Indrid's memory is something of a mess, but he still remembers with crystal clarity the night he first explained his precognition to Barclay. It was February,1970 and bitter cold as they made their way from Iowa down the Mississippi River to warmer climes. They were sitting together on the fold down couch in the R/V, sharing blankets to share body heat, the latest in a long line of cheap ploys to nudge Barclay into acting on the feelings he was baldly broadcasting in Indrid's direction whenever they were near each other, which was, in the small Winnebago, nearly every moment of the day.

They'd stopped for the night so that Indrid could spend a few moments adjusting their route to fit some shifts in his visions.

"How do they work?" Barclay asked quietly once Indrid had pushed the map aside and burrowed back down in the blankets, shivering.

Indrid had given him his stock reply about watching a million television screens, but Barclay started shaking his head halfway through.

"No, you've said that before," Barclay said. "I mean...with so much going on at once, how do you follow anything? How do you use that input to know what to do?"

This was a less common question. Indrid, of course, had few friends and even fewer people who knew what he could do, especially since he'd left Sylvain. He had to think about his response for a moment, absently rubbing feeling back into his fingers as he did so. Barclay startled him again by taking Indrid's hands and taking over, rubbing them gently and enveloping them in his own.

"Well," Indrid said, and cleared his throat. He'd liked to think he was immune to the awkwardness that came with the first blush of romantic infatuation, but Barclay was proving that wrong over and over with each passing day. "Um. I take in all the possibilities that I can and note similarities between events. That helps whittle it down to a small group of outcomes that are more likely to occur. Over time, as events get closer, less likely outcomes fall away until, eventually, there's only one path. Depending on how quickly things are changing, sometimes that clear path becomes apparent a few days in advance and sometimes it doesn't become clear until moments before it happens. Very occasionally, a dark horse possibility will win out at the last moment. That's what happened today--the future overwhelmingly seemed to be pulling me towards Nashville, but suddenly it looks like I'll need to be in Atlanta instead. Atlanta was barely on my radar two hours ago."

"Huh," Barclay said. He squeezed Indrid's fingers. "But you can still see all the possibilities? Even the ones that aren't likely to come to pass?"

"I can," Indrid said.

Barclay stared down at their clasped hands.

"How do you stand seeing other people struggling over what to do?" he asked quietly. "How do you not just shout at them until they do what they should?"

He looked up at Indrid. His face once again had all of his emotions on display. Indrid knew what he was asking and he'd never before in his life wanted to steal that agency from someone more than he did in that moment.

"Because that's where I get into trouble," Indrid said quietly, holding his gaze. "Making decisions for other people--once I start to interfere, start to make decisions on behalf of someone else, the future starts to change. If it changes too much, then I could do more harm than good. It's a fine line to walk--interfering can end in disaster so easily that it's just not worth it to meddle, at the end of the day. I need to let things play out. I need to let people make their own decisions."

"Oh," Barclay said. He squeezed Indrid's fingers again. There were hundreds of futures where he then leaned in and very nervously kissed Indrid on the mouth. There were hundreds more where he changed the subject or did nothing.

"You probably want to go to bed," Barclay finally said, steering them down the second path. "I'm sorry, I can get up."

"No need to apologize," Indrid said faintly, but he was already moving away from the couch to shift the furniture and pull down his own bed.

It was another four weeks until Indrid finally reached the end of his rope and made Barclay's decision for him, kissing him on a grassy overlook by the side of the road before he could waffle about acting on his feelings any longer.

The jury's still out on whether or not that kiss ended in the disaster that most of his interfering does. Either way, he knows it was worth it.

* * *

They waste eighteen of their precious minutes together in stony silence, Barclay staring at the ceiling and Indrid staring into space, following each individual path of their future with morbid curiosity. He knows he should break the silence, extend the olive branch, but it's just as easy to pretend that because it's not clear which option will win out, he should just wait and see what happens without interfering.

He's never claimed to be brave.

Still, in the end, as eighteen minutes threatens to turn into nineteen, Barclay's miserable face erodes Indrid's determination and he sighs.

"It's just...it's hard to explain."

"Because you think I'm too stupid to get it," Barclay says, but it's a half-hearted attempt at starting a fight.

"You know that's not true," Indrid says. "It's just that it's hard to imagine it if you haven't lived it. It's hard to describe."

"Just...try?" The fight has gone out of Barclay. "Please? I'm just...scared."

"I can do that," Indrid allows, and some of the tension in Barclay's shoulders releases. He moves just a few millimeters closer to Indrid. "So, I've explained before how I whittle down the future. How it becomes easier to predict outcomes as the event gets closer. How grouping like possibilities narrows down the field until it's clear which path fate will take."

"Yes."

"I've also explained that sometimes one option wins out with no prior warning, against all odds," Indrid continues.

"Going to Atlanta instead of going to Nashville," Barclay confirms. It seems Indrid isn't the only person who remembers that night.

"Exactly," he says. "So, let's say I'm predicting...I don't know, a car accident. For the sake of round numbers, let's say there are one thousand possible outcomes. In four hundred, the first driver brakes in time and there's no collision, but he drives into a ditch. In three hundred, the driver brakes in time and he stays on the road. In the last three hundred, the first driver doesn't brake in time and there's a collision. Well, the accident is just the final outcome of a series of smaller decisions about how fast to drive and whether to answer that phone call and whether to change the radio station and which mirror to look in first and a million other tiny decisions that could go in either direction. All of those little decisions usually line up and filter into similar paths. It's...sort of a cascading effect. And, of course, there's always the option that one possibility will break through that has nothing to do with the prediction, but largely, especially as we get close to a thing, as a series of events begins to take place, it gets easier and easier to see how that series of events will end. The driver decides to go out even though it's raining very hard, which makes it more likely that he decides to take the highway even though there's more traffic, which makes it more likely that he decides to change the radio station, which makes it more likely that he gets into an accident. Are you following?"

"Yes," Barclay says slowly.

"Probability is on my side, usually," Indrid says. "If he decides to take the highway, the odds of him driving into the lake suddenly become astronomically low."

"Unless there's a lake by the highway," Barclay says.

Indrid gives him a flat look. "Darling. Work with me, here."

Barclay cracks a smile and motions for him to continue, and something deep inside Indrid eases just a little.

"Usually, I can use that probability as a guide," Indrid says. "But in the past few weeks--the past two months, really, maybe more, there just...is no guide. There is no clear path. Every _single_ possibility fractures off into another thousand possibilities. It's like the logic of the future has disappeared. The predictability has vanished, everything is changing constantly and rapidly and there are just so many ways it can go, it's impossible to know what's going to happen until it's practically already happening. It's like the tree abomination, but ten times as bad. I deeply, desperately wish that I could be of some help, but the future isn't just changing hourly, it's changing minute by minute--second by second. It's going too fast for me to follow."

Barclay is quiet, his face unreadable. He picks absently at the end of the afghan, staring into space.

"If I could follow it," Indrid adds in nearly a whisper. "If I could...I know I have rules, I know _we_ have rules, but if I could follow the future and find a way that I could ensure that nothing would happen to you...if I could see solidly enough to have a way I _knew_ I could protect you...Barclay, I would break every rule I've ever made for myself if I could keep you safe. And I can't. I don't know where you would be safe. I don't know how. I don't know where to send you or where to keep you away from. And that uncertainty is excruciating." 

He thinks of how foolish he was two months ago, three months ago, four. He thinks of all of the times he could have done something to stop this, all of the times he could have directed them all onto the path where everyone came out alive. He didn't even consider it then; his stupid ethical code got in the way. He should have known better. He should have taken the chance. The discomfort of manipulating his friends' lives would have been better than this. 

They spend another minute in silence, Barclay staring at Indrid with every single one of his emotions on his face. It reminds him of when they were so, so much younger, with unbroken hearts and unbroken trust. It reminds him of those first giddy years together, when everything still felt like an adventure they were taking together, and when danger or uncertainty crossed their paths, they knew they could rely on each other.

"I'm sorry," Barclay says quietly, finally. "I just...fuck, come here."

Indrid is already moving. "You don't have to be sorry, I understand."

"Still."

He climbs into Barclay's lap and lets Barclay bury his face against his chest. He rests his hands on the top of Barclay's head and they breathe together.

"I'm scared too," Indrid murmurs.

"I'm only mad at you because I'm mad at myself," Barclay says against Indrid's sternum.

"You shouldn't waste your energy being mad at yourself," Indrid says.

"I could have done so many things differently," Barclay continues, as if he hadn't heard. "And I'm pissed about that. I'm pissed about wasting so much time and not acting fast enough. And I'm just...fuck. It's so messed up. I'm mad at myself because I want so badly to run away with you, and I know that I can't. I'm not going to. I can't leave. But I feel shitty that I even want to. And then I feel shitty that I feel shitty about it, because of course I want to. It makes sense. Anyone would want to run off with the love of their life if the alternative was...this. But I still feel guilty for wanting it."

Indrid struggles with a reply that doesn't sound trite as he watches hundreds of them play out in front of him. In the end, he just kisses the top of Barclay's head and murmurs, "Dearest," against his hair.

They shift on the sofa, lying back once again, rearranging their limbs until they're both prone in the small space. They don't drift off to sleep, but they don't talk for a long time, either. 

* * *

"Do you think the world is ending?" Barclay asks.

Indrid is quiet.

"I'm not sure what to think," he finally says, because that's far less frightening than admitting that, without the benefit of a clear outcome to guide him, he's rather sure it is.

* * *

They have sex again.

When Indrid showed up, he hadn't intended for them to spend the entire night fucking, but it's less painful than talking. They can let themselves get wrapped up in the lust and the physicality without having to confront the uncertainty hanging over their heads. In an uncharacteristic show of dominance, Barclay pins him against the sofa, close and unyielding and overwhelming. With his arms trapped beneath him, Indrid has no choice but to accept each soft touch and slow thrust and gentle word.

It's...intense.

"I think," Indrid pants, after, "that we need to further explore your dominant streak."

Barclay groans and covers his face. They're on the floor now, sprawled across the uneven wooden boards with sweat cooling on their skin. 

"Sorry," he says from beneath his hands.

"What in the world about that made you think I'd want you to apologize?" 

Barclay all but curls into a ball on the floor. He's nearly six and a half feet tall and almost twice as wide as Indrid, so the action is fairly comical.

"I don't know what's gotten into you in the past six months," Indrid continues, grabbing the afghan and wrapping himself in it to ward off the chill. "You never used to get shy about sex."

Barclay rolls onto his front and rests his head on his folded arms. He's not looking at Indrid, and Indrid can tell from the back of his neck that he's still blushing.

"I'm not...shy," Barclay insists. "It's just...I don't know. It's been a long time since we were together. Sometimes I feel like I'm not the same person I was back then and it's like this...this weird dichotomy that I can't work out, this thing where I want everything to be exactly like it was back then, while also knowing that it can't be like that because I'm not that person anymore."

"I like the person you are now," Indrid says, because he has a feeling that _You're not as different as you think_ won't go over the way he intends. "I don't need you to recreate the way we were before, in bed or anywhere else."

"I know." Barclay rolls onto his side, finally looking at Indrid again, a divot of worry between his eyebrows. "But...I guess, sometimes I wish I could. Sometimes I miss the way we were. And I want that back. Even though I know that's stupid--the way we were unraveled eventually. The way we are now is better, in the scheme of things. But I miss being that person. I'll never love anyone the way I loved you forty-five years ago, including you now. I'll never be that open again."

Barclay is remembering things a bit rosier than they actually were--their lives weren't perfect back in the seventies, nor was their relationship. But Indrid gets the point.

"That's just the nature of time, my dear," he says, not unkindly.

"I love you," Barclay says. "And I love that I get to be with you again. I like spending time with you--talking and watching movies and bickering and, yeah, obviously, having sex--but everything else in the world feels so precarious. Even in those first couple months after we got back together, before things got so dark, we were apart more than we were together and I spent all our time together worrying about how quickly you'd be gone again. I miss the simplicity we used to have. I miss not worrying."

"But you did worry." Indrid says it as gently as he can as he moves close enough to rest his hand on Barclay's arm. It's not a graceful movement, scooting along the cold, dirty wooden floor while wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket, but it's better to do that than get up and risk upsetting the fragile vulnerability of the moment. "Maybe not about where I was and if I was safe, or the abominations and the Pine Guard, but you worried all the time. You were always anxious about things that seemed, frankly, silly to me. And I understand that you can't help it and you couldn't help it then, but being together back then wasn't carefree--you're just remembering it that way."

Barclay shifts and takes Indrid's hand, lacing their fingers together. Stars above, but Indrid misses this when he doesn't have it.

"Maybe I should stop focusing on the past and start focusing on the future," Barclay says. He laughs, humorlessly. "If there even is a future."

"Let's say there is," Indrid says. "What's your ideal future?"

Barclay cracks a smile. "We've done this before."

"Things are different now," Indrid says. "Now, today: where is this relationship, ideally, in six months?"

This isn't a bad habit to get into. If they survive this--if the world survives it--perhaps it's something they should keep up with. Indrid has spent so long dependent on what he knows to be true in the future that it's only recently that he's paid any mind to what he _wants_ to be true in the future. What Barclay wants to be true in the future. It's especially timely to consider now, when there's no clear course laid out to guide him.

"Ideally," Barclay says, "I'd want us to be together. In my personal ideal, that's you here or at least you and I settled somewhere together. Who knows what's going to happen to Kepler, to Sylvain, to the gate. But I want to have a home in one place and I want you to be there with me. I'd like to get another job cooking--I know I started working in kitchens because it was easy work to get, but I do honestly enjoy it in a way that I don't necessarily enjoy the other managerial stuff Mama had me doing at the Lodge, even if that was technically an upgrade from my fry cook days. I'd like to still see my friends--the other Sylphs, the Pine Guard, the regulars from the Lodge. Apart from that, I don't need anything else. What about you?"

Indrid pauses. It's not that he's surprised at his own response, although he is. Largely, he's startled by how _possible_ it feels. He really, truly believes they may be on the brink of global catastrophe. But somehow, the idea that he and Barclay can make it through to the other side and have a real life together doesn't seem completely out of reach.

"I don't need much else, to be honest," Indrid says, squeezing Barclay's hand. "I want to be with you. I don't want to live life like this anymore, passing time between visits, being lonely and nervous when we're apart. I honestly don't even know how much I want to travel anymore. It might be nice to have a home in one place, at least for a little while. At least as a center of operations. Somewhere I know I can always come back. Somewhere you are."

Barclay is staring at him.

"Are you serious?" he asks. "Are you really serious? You don't want to travel any longer?"

"I didn't say that," Indrid says. "But I would like to do much less of it. I'd like to see if I would enjoy staying in one place. And, honestly, if we make it through whatever's going to happen and the future settles back on track...maybe it's time for me to put it all to rest. Maybe I don't need to be there to watch and guide things anymore. Maybe it's someone else's turn to handle it. There are things that are much more important to me now. Realizing, as I have, that I would be willing to throw away my entire ethical system just to keep you safe...well, it's stupid to be willing to do that and not willing to have a home with you on a regular basis."

Barclay is still staring at him. His gaze is cautious, wary.

"I want a garden," he says.

"You can have anything you want, my love," Indrid promises him.

"We'll need at least two bedrooms so we can have visitors."

"Done."

"And, to be honest, I don't know what my human identity's credit score looks like, so that might need some finagling."

"We'll figure it out."

Barclay gives him a real smile, then, the first Indrid has seen in a long time. The stress and anxiety of their past and future are lifted and replaced with unfettered joy. Indrid is glad he's still lying on the floor, because otherwise he'd be quite literally swooning with the hope and potential radiating outward.

"The only condition," Indrid manages to say, even though it feels like his heart is swelling to fill his whole chest, "is that for this evening, at least, you need to give up your fantasies of being the little spoon in deference to my poor, freezing constitution."

Abrupt and delighted, Barclay laughs and tugs Indrid against him, unwinding the afghan and pulling it off, then pulling Indrid close and curling it back around both of them.

"I do love being the little spoon," he murmurs in Indrid's ear. "But I guess I can make that sacrifice."

"It's very noble of you," Indrid says, and tucks his head under Barclay's chin.

* * *

In Sylvain, Indrid didn't think much about being partnered. He could see that it wasn't in his immediate future and there wasn't anyone in his orbit that made him resentful of that. He had an occasional dalliance--needs must, and all--but never spared a passing thought to anything long term.

When he met Barclay, of course, things changed. He liked the idea of spending his life with Barclay, though he didn't really think of it in those terms, precisely. He loved Barclay, he liked spending time with him, and they lived in the same small trailer. He didn't have to define it any further. They had no friends, no colleagues, no one to whom they needed to explain their relationship. It was what it was, and Indrid didn't question that. He didn't want anything more because he didn't realize there could be anything more to want.

What he wants now isn't exactly different from what they had before, but the environment has changed. Their lives are larger. There are more people to know, people they spend time with, people who are a part of their lives. There are people who _know them_ , and it's clarified some things. It's made Indrid aware that there is something more to want--recognition.

He wasn't lying when he introduced himself to Keith and Hollis earlier--he could absolutely get used to being defined by his relationship to Barclay. He relishes it, even, this chance to say, "Yes, this is who I belong to, and this is who belongs to me."

They need to get through the mess on the horizon, of course. Then, apparently, they need to go house-hunting.

But soon, he hopes. Soon there will be time to take a moment to themselves and then he can ask Barclay how he feels about making a public statement.

He likes the sound of "all the rest of my days." He hopes Barclay does too.

* * *

Indrid never imagined he'd find so much peace and happiness on the creaky old floor in the back room of a sham museum, but his heart breaks at the thought of leaving it behind. He watches the clock creep forward and the sky start to lighten and he knows that time is growing short.

"Barclay," he says quietly, squeezing his wrist.

"I'm not asleep," Barclay responds, just as quiet.

"I know," Indrid says.

"You need to go."

"I do."

It takes another few seconds for Barclay to move. They haven't gotten up off the floor, and it's done Indrid's back no favors. He groans as he shifts to his feet, shivering at the loss of shared body heat and wincing at how badly he needs a shower. He's covered in dried sweat, not to mention other bodily fluids, and he's been lying on the dusty ground for hours.

They collect their clothing from around the room haltingly, dressing in silence. Indrid tugs his t-shirt over his head and then snatches Barclay's flannel from the desk before Barclay can reach for it himself.

"That's mine," he says, half-heartedly. Indrid ignores him and pulls it on.

"I'm borrowing it." He rolls up the sleeves to free his hands, then snuggles into it. It's soft--all of Barclay's clothes are soft and warm and at least three sizes too big for Indrid. He had forgotten, in their years apart, how delightful it is to wrap himself up in them.

"You have an entire pile of my shirts and sweaters already," Barclay says, tugging lightly on the sleeve, unable to hide his grin. He may talk a good game, but Indrid knows Barclay is just as happy to see Indrid dressed in his clothes as Indrid is to wear them.

"Yes," Indrid says, "but none of those smell like you anymore."

And abruptly, Barclay's eyes well up and he starts to tremble. Indrid saw this coming, but it hasn't given him any further insight on what to do.

"Darling," he says cautiously, but tears are already escaping down Barclay's cheeks.

"Fuck!" he hisses. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I didn't mean to--I don't want to--I'm just--" He wipes fruitlessly at his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have anything to be sorry about," Indrid promises him, and between one breath and the next, Barclay is sobbing.

Indrid freezes for only a moment before wrapping his arms around Barclay, shushing him gently. "Darling, darling, darling," he murmurs, and rubs Barclay's back.

"I'm sorry," Barclay chokes out. "Fuck. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It's fine, you don't have to be sorry."

He takes a deep, wobbling breath and digs his fingers into Indrid's back. "I was going to be cool. I was going to...I was going to just let you go and be cool and detached but...this could be...this could be the last time I ever--"

"No, no, no, no," Indrid says before he can finish. He's terrible at comfort. He was terrible at it decades ago, when Barclay would have panic attacks and Indrid would stand mutely at his side, unsure of what to do. He was terrible at it when they would fight and he knew that Barclay needed _something_ from him and couldn't figure out what. He's not much better now, his own heart breaking so sharply at the sight of Barclay's distress that he wants to scream alongside him. But he has to do something. He has to try and make it better. "No. Don't think that way."

"We're sitting here making a...making a _life_ together, and it's all just a...a fucking pipe dream, because there's no way--"

"Sshhhh," Indrid murmurs.

"The city is shut down and Mama is gone and the Lodge is gone and Ned _died_ and we have no idea what's coming and we're not _prepared_ for what's coming and--"

"Breathe, Barclay. Please. Just breathe."

Barclay doesn't listen to him, exactly, but he stops trying to talk and goes back to gasping for breath between sobs, holding on to Indrid in a desperate embrace. Indrid's window to leave is limited and shrinking by the second, but he can't just abandon Barclay like this. He can't. Even if that means he's likely to spend the next few days in jail.

"I can't promise that it's going to be okay," Indrid says softly. "I don't know that right now, and if I don't, no one does. But that means that I also don't know that it's going to end in disaster. We have the power to push this either way, right now. You and me and Aubrey and Duck and the Hornets and the Sheriff and Janelle and everyone. We can survive this yet. I'm not going down without a fight--I have too much to look forward to."

He doesn't realize how fiercely he means it until the words are leaving his mouth.

Barclay calms little by little after that, until he's unfolding himself from the knots he twisted himself into. He scrubs at his face with one hand, still crying, but no longer shaking with it.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"Honestly, Barclay, please stop apologizing for being upset at the thought of my demise," Indrid says. It's not a good joke and Barclay can barely muster a smile in return, but at least he doesn't start sobbing again.

"You need to go," Barclay says.

Indrid looks at the clock and looks back to Barclay and tries to pick through the tangled mess of the future, hoping for even a glimpse of a way to avoid this departure.

"I do," he finally replies. "I may be back soon. But even if I'm not, I hope that you know how very much I love you."

For just a moment, Barclay seems like he might break down again, but he lets out a watery sigh and nods.

"I do," he says. "I love you too. More than anything. Please be careful."

"I could say the same to you," Indrid says, and Barclay shrugs.

They stare at each other for a moment. 

Indrid has to leave. He really has to leave.

"Be safe, my dear," he whispers, and kisses Barclay one last time.


End file.
